


Act III

by AtomicPen



Series: Wings Straight and Swift Will Bring Us Home [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: 100 Days of Fic, 100 Days of Sebastian, Act III, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Ficlet Sequence, Gen, Kirkwall, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:36:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/pseuds/AtomicPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Walk along the edge of water long enough and eventually you'll convince yourself to dive in. Only then will you discover it was the edge of a knife instead.</i>
  <br/>
  <b>
    <br/>
  </b>
  <br/>
  <i>series of short ficlets from my tumblr's 100 Days of Fic challenge <a href="http://atomicpen.tumbltr.com/prompts">masterlist</a>, in chronological order, following Sebastian at various points throughout the third Act</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Close

He had figured it out. He knew why he felt so drawn to Hawke, more than anyone else he had encountered in his entire thirty years alive. He saw himself in her.

She wasn’t the third child, of course, but she could never please her mother. She tried and tried, but Leandra Hawke always seemed to favour Bethany or lost Carver over her eldest daughter. Sebastian didn’t know what more was expected of Hawke—anything and everything she did was for her family. All he saw from them was bitterness and under-appreciation. He knew those both well enough to recognise them when he saw them in other. But, where he had given up, she continued to live her life for her family. He couldn’t do that, even before they were murdered. At least Hawke wasn’t selfish, like he was, about it.

More than that, she never let anyone get close to her. He suspected it had to do with so much of her childhood—her entire life, as a matter of fact, until she came to Kirkwall—being spent on the run, or in combat. Don’t get to know anyone too much, and it didn’t hurt so badly when they died or when you moved on. He learned that from an early age onward, as well. Don’t show you cared, tell yourself you don’t care, and they can’t hurt you any more. He never let himself love any of the women he had over the years—though there were several times he came perilously close—and he always moved on quickly as he could. Hawke had run for her life; he ran from it.

Sebastian saw all her walls every time, because he used the same ones himself. Oh, they had different tactics, different defense mechanisms—where she was sarcastic and witty, he quoted and pretended to be embarrassed. But, at the root of it all, the walls were the same. The barriers he kept up were all there in her. He knew they were too strong to be taken down by anyone but the person who put them up in the first place.

So, why did he feel so compelled to get close enough to try and scale hers?


	2. Open

It was one of the few times he decided to visit her estate, and one of the even fewer times he saw Bodahn, his son Sandal, and Orana were all gone. Faolan, her mabari, was not in his usual place by the fire, either. Furrowing his brow a bit, Sebastian wandered through the foyer into her library, looking for her but not calling out just yet. He had some mild hope in the back of his mind that he'd stumble upon her in the midst of some normal, every-day activity no one ever got to see from her. She wasn't in her library, and Sebastian skimmed his fingers along a shelf of books as he left the expansive room.

Soon, he found himself wandering throughout her estate--he did not intrude upon the empty room of her mother, but he did peek into the spare room that had once been her sister's (mostly because the door was slightly ajar to begin with). When he came upon her bedroom door, however, he worried his bottom lip a moment before knocking gently. No answer came, and he fought a momentary inner battle before easing the door open. A quick glance from side to side over the room told him she wasn't there, though her rumpled bed told him she dismissed Bodahn and Orana early; he didn't think either of them would allow her sheets to remain thus. He resisted the temptation to stride around her room and finger through tidbits of her, decided doing so would be too intruding. Backing out, he closed the door with a soft click and made his way back down the staircase.

Several rooms later, he found his way to the kitchens, long and kept immaculately clean by Orana. The other times he had the chance to be in her estate, wonderful smells had wafted from this room, but today the fires were cold and nothing was cooking. He did detect, however, a fresh warm scent he knew was grass in the sun, and the light fragrance of a dozen different flowers. A quick scan led him to see a slash of light across the floor of the kitchen, and he strode to it, discovering the door to Hawke's garden flung wide open. He heard the faint whuffling of Faolan from outside, and another sound that made his breath hitch and his blood warm in his veins.

Hawke was laughing.

Not the dry, oft-times cynical chuckle she tended to sport around her companions, nor the mirthless laugh that was more blade than anything else when she fought. It wasn't even the bawdy laughter he so often heard when at the Hanged Man. No, the sound he heard was pure music, unhidden behind any of her walls. He half-slid closer to the open door and paused before crossing the threshold, reveling and languishing in her sounds for a just a few moments longer. When the concern of eavesdropping and stalking entered his mind, he turned and walked out the door, smiling at the sight of her wresting with her mabari on the grassy earth. He steadily approached her, until she noticed him and looked up. Breathless and grinning ear to ear with abandon he had never seen in her before, he felt his heart skip a beat or two.

"Oh, Sebastian! I didn't hear you come in." She sat back on her knees as Faolan rolled in the grass before her, mouth open and tongue lolling out. "Sorry for being the bad hostess."

"Nonsense, Hawke," he replied, feeling like he had intruded and wanting nothing more than to be able to be part of this ease he now saw she had within her. He wanted all this tension building in Kirkwall and coming to rest almost solely on her shoulders to end. Anything to see her smile like that more often. "I was the one intruding."

"It's odd that you drop by like this," she commented, standing and brushing the grass from herself. She didn't wear her fighting leathers, but something softer. Still practical, as always, but more feminine than the hard boiled leather he was so used to seeing her in. Immediately, he wished he had sported something other than his armour, as well, to fit in with her. "Did you need anything?"

He shook his head. He hadn't had any chores or pressing requirements at the Chantry, and he had really just wanted a free day to visit with her. Not that he'd admit that to her--or to the Grand Cleric.

"No, I just... I only... I was in the area, so I thought I might drop by," he finally finished.

An amused, mildly knowing smile spread across her lips, and he saw at least some of the walls come back up. She was guarded around him, like everyone else. More and more, however, he was finding himself wanting to take down those walls she put up in front of him. More than he wanted to find peace in the Chantry. More, even, than he wanted to reclaim what was rightfully his in Starkhaven. She was a dangerous lock to open.

"Well, then, in that case," she continued, walking over to him with that slight swagger he loved to watch in her hips, "would you care to join me for some tea?"

He smiled at her. "I would love to, Hawke."

Then again, Sebastian always loved a challenge, had always flirted with danger more than was good for him, and he could never resist the temptation of a difficult lock.


	3. Steal

If the Grand Cleric knew, she would have a fit.

If Hawke caught him, she'd either have a fit or buy him a drink.

As it was, once he started, he couldn't seem to stop himself. At first, he told himself it was for fun. A jest, maybe a little test. It wasn't anything expensive, or even highly desirable. Just a little trinket. Something she wouldn't miss. It was a ring of coral the first time. He was visiting her estate and the glint of the pale pink caught his eye in the light, and the idea struck him. Hawke was another skilled in the arts of having light and nimble fingers, but he was lifting things years before she had ever set foot in the Free Marches. Since he had decided to stay within the Chantry, however, he had kept his fingers to himself.

Then she came along, and the urge began to tickle his digits again. He wasn't sure why that urge came back to him, but after pushing it down and back for a while, he decided to give in. Just one little thing, to see if she'd notice. In his head, he rationalised it as a sort of game. And it wasn't like the items were originally hers, anyway. He made sure to only lift things he knew for certain she had looted herself. He had quite the collection growing in the small drawer of his writing desk. After two months and five items, he decided to see if any other old skills he once had under his belt still remained.

His heart pounded in his chest the first time he slipped through the shadows of Hightown, from the Chantry to Hawke's estate. He felt his breath deepen a little with exhilaration as he scaled one side of her mansion, and somehow he thought the breeze tasted just a little sweeter next to one of her second-story windows, as he clung to the windowsill, picking the lock. The shutter and glass swung open with a quiet hiss, and he paused a moment longer, listening for movement from inside. He wasn't sure how light of sleepers Bodahn or Sandal were, but he knew Hawke was one. He released a breath, slowly, when nothing but silence greeted him, and eased himself inside. No armour impeded him or risked clanking or jangling when he least wanted it, and he stood for a moment in the dark of Hawke's estate. His heart still pounded, but it was a different sort of adrenaline pumping through his veins. She hadn't noticed anything he had taken so far, and he had a sudden desire for her to notice him. All of a sudden, his little game shot to an entirely different level.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he looked around the hall he was in. It seemed more intimate at night, with the fire burning into embers and everyone in bed. And there he was, always the interloper. He never felt he fit in his own home in this situation when he was young, and he certainly didn't belong here, now.

Then again, maybe that was his point.

He always seemed to steal moments, rather than truly be part of them. He stole moments of happiness with his grandfather. He stole moments of lust and pleasure with women in his youth. He stole moments of peace within the Chantry. He stole moments of gratification when he was accompanying Hawke in helping others. None of them ever felt like his own.

Maker, he was a sad lot all by himself. What was he even doing there? Shaking his head, he turned and left by the window he had come in by. Was he some unblooded rake vying for some woman's attention, that he felt the need to take things from her until she noticed them missing? Then what would he do? Give them back? Tell her he was the one who had taken them? To what end would that lead him? He snorted as he climbed down to the stone walkway.

What a ridiculous game of cat and mouse he was trying to play, except he was the mouse trying to get the attention of the cat. Turning and walking away from Hawke's estate, he never saw her brush the curtains of her bedchamber window aside to watch him go, never saw the glint of silver from the pendant in her hand that, earlier that evening, she had left on the table in the hallway for him to take.

He wasn't fifteen or even twenty any longer. He shouldn't be playing games like this.


	4. Orange

Of course it would be his turn to foray for dinner on the new moon. Not that he had anything against either hunting or the empty black of the sky, but Hawke had pushed them further than she should have that day, and it was sunset just as Sebastian was setting out to hunt. By the time he caught anything and made his way back to camp, he would be surprised if there was any light left at all.

Movement caught his eye and he drew back an arrow to his cheek in a swift movement, but he wasn't fast enough. The deer had already vanished into the growing shadows of the forest, and he said a soft curse under his breath. Small game tonight, then. Perhaps it'd be better, anyhow. They didn't have the time nor the packs to take everything from a full deer that they should.

Sliding the arrow back into his quiver and shouldering his bow, Sebastian drew a curved dagger, the bone hilt worn from years of use. It was his first dagger, and it had never failed him when he needed it most. He flexed his fingers around the smooth hilt, imagining perfect grooves for each digit. He slowed his breathing and crept slowly and sideways between the bushes and saplings, not using his eyes so much in the dimming light than his ears and instincts. He had always been good at hunting--better than either of his brothers. Where they bested him in the battlefield or practice grounds every time, he could run circles around them in the forest. Once, he actually did.

A soft noise and shuffle to his right made him freeze and lower himself, painstakingly slow, closer to the ground. His muscles did not shake, however--before Hawke, in the Chantry, these skills had gotten somewhat lax, but now that he was skulking again on a regular basis, he had slipped back into the movements like a skin. Muscle memory was a fascinating thing. After a moment of stillness, a hare made its way out from under broad leaves. Sebastian's dagger flashed.

Once more, and then it became too dark to see any other game. Two rabbits should satisfy them, the archer decided, cleaning his dagger as he walked. The dead hare were tied together with spare flax he used to make his bowstrings and slung over the armour of his left shoulder. When he sheathed his dagger, he looked up and around, and realised he didn't know in which direction Hawke's camp lie. He looked to the sky, to use the stars to judge his position, but the canopy of the forest was too dense to make any constellations out clearly enough.

"Maker's breath," he hissed to himself, and squinted in the dark at the trees, trying to recognise them.

After several minutes of more or less aimless wandering, a dim glow flickered through the trees to his left. He had to backtrack a little to catch it again, but when he did he made his way toward it, picking and weaving through roots and over a little stream he didn't think he remembered, until he knew for sure it was growing larger. It was warm and though he reasoned that it could be anyone, any traveller or group out in the Vimmark Mountains, in the back of his mind he knew it was Hawke. He didn't have any solid proof other than his gut, so he kept veering toward it, anyway.

When he finally came within closer distance to the fire, he heard Fenris's distinct growl of a voice, expressing concern over such a large fire. Hawke's response caught him off-guard, however, and it stopped him in his tracks outside the ring of light.

"Sebastian's out there, Fenris. It's a new moon, and not all of us have your elvish ability to see in the dark," she chided. "It has to be bright enough to lead him home to us."

 _Home_. Warmth filled Sebastian like the glow of the fire. Biting back the grin that threatened to split his face, he walked the rest of the way to their camp.

"Ah, the prodigal son has returned," Varric quipped. "No offense meant, of course."

"None taken," Sebastian replied, slinging the hares down from his shoulder. He gave one to Hawke, who made a noise of appreciation and whipped out her skinning dagger, twirling it expertly in her hands (showing off as usual) before setting in to dress the creature.

"Glad you made it back to us," she commented, not looking up from her work. Sebastian did not glance at her, either, from the second hare that he was skinning.

"With you around to make sure, Hawke, I always do."

Varric and Fenris both saw the smile that spread across Hawke's lips, even if Sebastian did not.


	5. Dress

"Sebastian!"

The snap of her voice was ignored, by and large, by the archer leaning over her. He calmly continued his ministrations, though now he shifted his body so that Hawke was pinned more securely.

"Honestly, do you have to press quite so hard?"

"Yes, Hawke," he replied, mild and unconcerned. "It would be much worse if I were not doing so, trust me on this."

"Oh, and you would know?" The bite in her voice was trying to cut deeper than usual, he knew, and let it slide off him. She was speaking through pain, they type of which he was all-too familiar with.

"Aye, as a matter of fact. I would know. I had a very similar wound several years ago."

"Oh, conveniently before anyone ever knew you," she hissed, trying to sit up and finding herself unable to move his solid form. "How did you get so damn heavy, Vael? I know that armour isn't heavy plate by any means."

"Drawing a bow and running through the woods and streets of Starkhaven for years and years does have its advantages in strength, Hawke." His brows knit beyond her sight. The wound she had was deeper than his had been, and he feared it cut close to important vessels of lifeblood. Though, the fact that she was still alive and insulting him probably meant that she was out of death's way. He manoeuvred his hands so that his draw hand pressed down on the wound now. Hawke let out a whimper of pain behind him.

"Yes, well--" she said around gritted teeth, a little more breathy than usual. He could feel her heart pounding even through the leg that he was tending. "I have to agree with that, considering the vice you just put on my leg. _Right where it hurts_ , I feel the need to add."

"Oh?" Sebastian reached with his other hand, covered in her bright blood, to a side pouch to draw out a small vial of thick liquid. "Good. That means I'm in the right spot."

"So help me, if you ever let me up, I'm going to kill you with my bare hands."

A chuckle escaped him as he lifted the vial to his mouth and uncorked it with his teeth. The contents were thick and heady, almost a paste, smelling heavily of rosehips, sage and yarrow. He held it over her wound and tapped the bottle until he was satisfied with the amount. Setting the vial to the side, he then smeared the salve as thickly as he could over the wound, ignoring her gasps of pain and futile writhing. He had anticipated that she would struggle, and so had straddled her in a remarkably unchaste fashion (to any other eye), with the intent to use the full weight of his body, if needed, to hold her down. She was strong--he had seen examples of that personally--but he was stronger.

"Sebastian Vael, what are you doing to me?" The hitch in her voice was almost frantic.

"Trust me, Hawke. I just put a salve on the wound that will clean it and numb the pain. Give it a moment."

"All it's doing right now is stinging like a--"

"Hawke," he interrupted, firmly. "Take a deep breath. I don't need you passing out from too much breath."

She sucked in a ragged breath he felt shake her whole body, but let it out, slow and controlled, followed by several more. He smiled even as he pulled two strips of cloth from another pouch--one to clean up the edges of the deep cut, the other to wrap tight around the wound and bind it. Soon after Hawke started breathing regularly, he could see the salve kick in, thickening and slowing the flow of her blood so that he could relax his pressure on it enough to begin binding it.

"How does it feel?" he asked her as he worked.

A moment or two of hesitation came before her answer. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that," she said instead.

He spared a moment to glance at her over his shoulder. Her face was pale--paler than he would have liked--but her eyes were clear and her voice strong again. "Don't worry, Hawke. If it helps you get through it, you can insult me and call me every name in the book."

A wry smile twisted her mouth, and he felt his shoulders relax tension he hadn't known he had been holding in them. "That would take a very long time, considering all the insult and dirty names I know."

Better swearing than bleeding to death, he almost said, but caught himself in time. Hawke wouldn't have found insult in his words, he knew, but the fear that gripped his chest, sudden and insistent, at the thought of losing her stilled his tongue. He finished dressing and binding her wound, then eased off of her and turned, picking up the vial and re-corking it as he did so. Offering her a bloody hand, he helped her sit up and smiled at her.

"Whatever helps you through it." _Whatever keeps you alive._


	6. Cut

Some things were easy to forget. They got buried beneath so many other memories, under so many years, under so much animosity. He had forgotten it ever happened--that such a time could have even existed in his past.

So, it was difficult to explain when she saw the scars on his arm, as Anders was wrapping his bruised ribs.

At first, he didn't know what she was talking about, until he looked for himself, and then the memory surfaced in his mind like smoke rising from dying embers. The apostate tending him remained silent, as did Sebastian. It wasn't a bad memory, nor one he was ashamed of, but he didn't want to regale everyone present with a story from his past. So he shrugged and pretended not to know their origin, instead, waving it off as some past of his sordid history. He couldn't help but feel her eyes on him, though, and avoided meeting them with his own.

Later, she cornered him in the Chantry as he was sweeping the left clerestory. One moment, he was alone and softly humming to himself and the next she was suddenly there when he turned.

"Hawke," he said, surprised. "What brings you to the Chantry today? Do you need me for something?"

"Yes, in fact," she said, walking closer to him. He straightened, broom still in hand.

"Well, what is it? How may I help you?"

She drew close enough to take the broom from him--close enough for him to smell her earthy scent even through the incense drifting up from the nave below--and locked him in with those eyes of hers.

"You can tell me what those scars on your arm are really from."

The question caught him off-guard, and he regarded her curiously for a moment. "My scars? Why would you even care about those old things?"

She shrugged. "A hunch." Motioning to a bench pushed up against the wall with his broom, she said, "Sit."

Still watching her, though more cautious than curious now, Sebastian moved over to sit where she indicated. Hawke slid onto the bench beside him, angling herself toward him and setting the broom across her lap.

"Where did they come from? They look far too planned to just be from some tavern brawl, or skirmish with whomever. I know what those look like, and those are too clean." The gaze she affixed on him was almost accusatory.

Sebastian fought the urge to hold up his hands in defense. After a moment, he closed his eyes and took a breath before he began.

"You could say I had a... tumultuous relationship with my brothers. They were both nearly a decade older than me, and seemed to make it a goal to torment me every waking moment they had free." He did lift a hand that time, more out of admission than to silence her from interjecting. "I do not guilt them that; boys will do that sort of thing, and I cannot blame them. But," he went on, lowering his hand back to his lap. "There was one time, I was perhaps seven or eight, and finally old enough to join them in learning the arts of war. Of course, they were both far ahead of me and normally we never practiced in the same grounds, let alone with the same weapons or against one another. I don't know if age was beginning to temper them, or if they thought it was another elaborate prank, but they came to watch me practice one evening.

"I was terrible with a sword, but I was learning it anyway. Polearms were even worse for me, and I didn't even bother with flails or morningstars. The night they came to watch me, however, was one of the first nights I started practicing with a bow. I was also terrible at that, but not nearly half as much as anything else. _Promise_ , was the word used to describe it." A fond smile tugged at the corners of Sebastian's mouth. "The first time anything so positive had been said about my studies of war, and my eldest brother had said it. Afterward, they praised me and took me with them to some tower they had claimed as their own some time back." He shook his head slightly. "I don't know what their agenda was--because they always seemed to have one--but I like to think they were actually impressed by my potential. At any rate, they pulled out some whisky from a secret stash they had, and gave me some. I hacked and coughed and it only seemed to have them warm up to me more. After they had some, and I struggled down another sip, they decided we should all have something tying us together as brothers."

"What, more than just blood and name?"

Sebastian considered that a moment. "It was more a brothers-at-arms, I think, than blood brothers." Hawke nodded in understanding, and had a knowing look that told him she just might know where his story was going.

"Three marks was what they finally decided on. Two crossed like swords with a third straight through them, like an arrow. Cameron was the oldest, so he went first. Mathe gave him his marks, and he didn't even flinch. I remember being so awed by that," Sebastian said through a soft chuckle. "Then Cameron did ours--Mathe next, and I was last." Thoughtfully, Sebastian rubbed his chin, looking up at the vaulted Chantry ceiling as he remembered. "I think I cried, but I can't remember. It bled a lot, though, I do remember that. He cut deep, Cameron did. Mine are deeper than his or Mathe's ever were. Theirs faded as they grew older; mine never have."

Hawke tilted her head and watched him a moment before saying anything. "Well, that's a good memory to hang on to about your family, then." He couldn't tell if she meant it as a statement or a question.

He lowered his eyes back to her. "Aye, that is one of a few. I do not have many of those concerning my brothers. To be honest, I had forgotten entirely about it until you saw them and asked me the other day." He paused, then continued when she remained silent. "Why were you interested to know?"

She bit her lip then smiled at him, standing all at once and handing him back his broom. Her smile was more guarded than usual, her eyes nervous behind a surprisingly thin front. "No reason. I just thought... It looked familiar to me, is all," she finished, looking off to the side. "But you must excuse me now. The hour is late, and Mother will worry where I am."

Hawke left, pace quick, and he stood to watch her go. Knitting his brow, he decided he never remembered hearing her use her mother as an excuse before, but she was down the stairs and out the door before he could catch up with her. She had her secrets, just like he had his, he told himself. It was not his place to ask after them.

Still, he wondered, pressing his fingers against the armour over his bicep where his scars were.


	7. Strawberries

They were walking through Hightown together, on their way to the Hanged Man. Hawke had come to fetch Sebastian from the Chantry--nothing particularly important was going on, but there were times when he suspected Hawke just wanted to have people she cared about around her. She had been that way ever since her mother's murder, and no one could fault her. She had no family left--her brother dying before they even reached Kirkwall, and her sister away with the Grey Wardens years ago--and Sebastian could sympathise. He was not nearly as close to his own family as Hawke was to hers, but he still knew the sting of familial loss.

"It's just for a game of Wicked Grace," Sebastian said, reaching out to lightly grab Hawke's elbow. She was ahead of him, again. "There's no need to run there. Varric most certainly will still be there, and I doubt the others are leaving any time soon." She let out a breath and slowed to match his pace. He smiled. "Aye, that's it."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Sebastian, I'm a rogue, not a horse. You don't have to lead me, you know." She did not pull away from him, he noticed, and he decided on a whim to keep his hand around her elbow. Just until she wanted it back. "It is rather nice out, for a city. You know," she went on, "it doesn't even usually occur to me to take a leisurely walk. I feel like I'm always in the midst of running to do something for someone, or to stop some minor catastrophe from happening."

"Well, now you're not doing any of those things, so you might as well take the time and enjoy it," he told her. "I think you've made enough of an impression on the city by this time that no one will attack you in broad daylight." He paused for only a moment. "I think, anyway."

"There always are those crazies out there just waiting for an opportunity to present itself," she agreed. As they walked, Hawke made a small sort of humming noise, and shifted the arm he was holding onto until it was looped through his before he had time to react. Both his eyebrows went up, and he sneaked a glance out at her out of the corner of his eye, but she wasn't looking at him. He allowed himself a small, smug smile.

The merchant stalls of the market square opened up around them, and he tugged her along with him, as he veered off their course to look at wares.

"Sebastian, what are you doing?" she asked, startled.

"Enjoying the day," was his simple reply. He placed his free hand over the arm she still had looped through his so she couldn't pull away. "And I'm making sure you do the same."

Though a sound of protest bubbled from her throat, that was the most Hawke did to try and dissuade him of dragging her around the marketplace. In fact, if he didn't know better, he would have called her out on enjoying herself without him having to do much else other than introduce the notion of it to her. Most of the things they looked at were practical, and he was amused to hear her coo over weaponry and armour the way most women would have cooed over trinkets and clothing.

They made their way through the square, stopping at a wooden cart full of food near the stairs that led down to Lowtown. The man working it was a merchant he had never seen before, and Sebastian supposed he was making his rounds through the Free Marches. He had fruits and nuts and berries from all over--large mangoes from the northern isles, three different kinds of apples he recognised as Starkhaven natives, and at least half a dozen little barrels full of berries of all shapes and colours. Sebastian released Hawke's arm to pick at some of the nuts that had more exotic and interesting names, and when he looked over to Hawke, she was lifting a plump red berry in reverence between her fingers.

"Strawberries, hm?" he asked her, moving closer. She nodded.

"We used to pick these little wild ones back in Lothering. I haven't seen them since we came to Kirkwall, actually."

The merchant piped in, with a thick rural accent Sebastian recognised as northeastern Starkhaven.

"Oh aye, tha' there's a firm right everbearer--donnae let th' size of it fool ye. It's still got quite th' mouthful of flavour." He looked at Sebastian and grinned. "Picked fresh right a'fore I came--wi' m'own two hands, at that."

"It's certainly twice the size of the wild ones back home," Hawke commented.

"Go on, then. Have a taste. It'll be on me--an' see if'n ye donnae buy a bushel of 'em right after."

At his permission, Hawke took a bite, her eyes closing. Sebastian swallowed and knew the merchant would think they were a couple if his reaction were a plain on his face as it felt.

"Delicious," she said finally, after finishing her bite.

"I don't think we'll take a bushel of them," Sebastian said, "but perhaps a small basket."

Instantly, Hawke's attention flew to him. "Oh, I wasn't intending--I didn't ask--"

Sebastian ignored her, as did the merchant, as he took a small basket provided and began filling it. "They won't last forever," he told her as he picked up strawberry after strawberry, inspecting each one before putting it in the basket. "But they'll be good to share for a few nights at least."

"Share?"

He flushed as she fixed him with a look, realising how it must have sounded. "Ah, that is, we'll take them to the Hanged Man with us. For the others, too."

Hawke's expression relaxed, and he could have sworn it held a touch of disappointment. But that had to be his imagination. "Yes. Right. Nearly forgot about that lot."

At Hawke's protesting, Sebastian paid the merchant for the basket, while chatting with him a bit about Starkhaven. The news he heard was not promising to the future of the principality--his cousin was just as incompetent as he remembered, and the people and trade were suffering because of it. The Circle remained destroyed with no plans to reconstruct it, and, according to this merchant, the rural towns and villages were starting to talk about overthrowing Goran and placing someone more competent on the throne. The Vaels had ruled for quite a while, and most of them were at least not a burden to the whole of Starkhaven, if not an asset to it, but Goran was just a puppet, and after cutting Lady Harimann's strings, Sebastian wondered who would come to pick them up again. An Orleasian? He inwardly shuddered to think of an Orleasian noble running things behind the throne in his principality.

"Sebastian?" Hawke's voice brought him back to the present. "Hello, are you still in there? I didn't realise strawberries made you so nostalgic."

He gave her a sheepish grin. "I think that was more you--the sound of home was what got me." They thanked the merchant and went back on their way.

He handed her another strawberry as they walked, enjoying the sight of her indulging in the little fruit. His fingers lingered a bit over the double strawberry he had found, and he was torn whether to share it with her or not. He wasn't sure if Fereldens shared any of the same traditions and superstitions with his countrymen, and so was hesitant to do anything that might be construed as blatant. Or overstepping. That, and he wasn't sure of himself--what if he did try and share it with her, and she rejected it? Or what if she took it seriously? Was he ready for that?

In the end, he passed it over, and they reached the Hanged Man. Perhaps he'd let fate and the Maker decide. If they ended up with it... maybe he would take that as a sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In medieval times, one would share the rare double strawberry with the object of their heart's desire, and it was said it would bring about true love._


	8. Affair

Hawke was distracted. The way she moved, the way her arms whirled, the way her muscles shifted. She wasn't anywhere near on point. Sebastian loosed a quick succession of arrows and finished off the last two slavers. Anders hurried over to her, but she waved him off. Sebastian saw her tear off a piece of cloth and wrap it around her forearm, even as Anders turned his back to see if Varric needed attending.

He kept his eye on her as they hiked back to Hightown--Anders excused himself to Darktown, and Varric bid them goodnight when they passed the Hanged Man.  She didn't banter like she usually did, and she kept her eyes straight in front of her. He jogged a little to catch up with her pace after Varric left them.

"Hawke," he said, and she grunted in response. "Something's bothering you. What is it?"

At his insistent tone, she gave him a sharp look. "You don't take confessions, Sebastian. I don't think now, with mine, is a good place for you to start."

"I wasn't looking for a confession, Hawke," He reached out and snatched her wrist, tightening his hold before she could tug it away. "I was asking as a friend."

She tried to pull away, regardless. "Trust me, Sebastian, you don't want to hear it."

"Hawke, if there's something bothering you--"

With a sudden twist and toss of her weight, she had him slammed up against a stone wall. His armour complained about the scrape of stone against metal, but he was too surprised to try and move. Now Hawke was grabbing his hand, pressing it between them as she leaned close enough to feel her breath with white knuckles.

"My problem's called Vael," she hissed at him.

For an instant, all he could do was blink at her. "What? What do you mean?"

Nothing about her relinquished or lessened. "For six years now, you've strutted across my thoughts and invaded my dreams," she said to him in a fierce whisper, eyes holding his own. "I've tried to stop myself, but you keep _being there_. And I can't stop taking you along with me."

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, adam's apple bobbing heavily. "Anders," was all he got out.

She let out a curse under her breath and pushed back from him to stalk away, then back again. "Yes. Him. I know." When she stopped and closed in on him again, he saw a velvet darkness in her eyes that threatened to envelope him. "But, he's not here. Usually not around, either."

He knew exactly what she was suggesting, and in another life, at another time, he would have no qualms satisfying her. Maker's teeth, he wouldn't have let her be with anyone else to begin with. As much as he was reconsidering his now-personal vows to the Chantry, he couldn't do what she wanted. Not now.

"Hawke, you don't want this," he began. In an instant, she was upon him again, pressed up against him.

"If there is one thing about me, Sebastian Vael, I know what I want. And _you_ are what I want."

He made himself shake his head, though it felt like every muscle protested, every cell in his body screamed at him for doing so. But he knew he had to. She would never forgive herself if he succumbed and let her succumb.

"No, Hawke. I cannot do this. You cannot do this. I know another thing about you, and that you would regret doing it for the rest of your life."

She searched his face and he watched hers fall, watched her brows peak and the corners of her mouth turn down.

"You know it's the right thing, Hawke. If... If things were different--"

"Shut up. Things _were_ different." The anger was back now, and so was her front. The vulnerableness he had seen in her was gone as quickly as it had been there, bared for him to see. She took his face in her hands and rose up on the balls of her feet, snaking in like an adder to snag his lips with her own. She bit down a little, and he couldn't stop himself from relaxing into the demand. He tasted her and forgot what he had just said, forgot where they were, forgot his own name. And then, her mouth was gone, her pressure against him was gone. He opened his eyes--when did he close them?--to see her walking slowly away from him; though her back was turned, he could tell she was hugging herself. He pushed off the wall and came up beside her.

Placing a gentle hand on her arm, he held her in place as he circled in front of her. "Hawke," he said, quiet. "It wouldn't be worth the regret after."

She let out a controlled breath and nodded. "You're right. If I weren't--if he weren't--" She bit her lip, avoiding his eyes. "Maybe in some other present than this one."

Pulling away from him, she almost jogged toward her estate. Sebastian watched her go, still feeling her teeth on his lips and her tongue in his mouth.

He didn't even know where to start in prayer tonight.


	9. Books

It was his earliest memory, and still one of his most treasured. The first time he visited Hawke in her new estate and she gave him the "2-silver tour", as she called it, he was momentarily taken back to Starkhaven when she bade him enter her library.

"And here is where all the books are, of course. They're not all mine--not too many bandits and smugglers are avid enough readers to drag tomes around with them," Hawke said. "They're mostly from my mother's family, though I am starting my own little collection on that pathetic-looking bookcase by the mantle."

She pointed and his eye's followed her motion, coming to rest on a bookcase, dwarfed by the others in the room, snugly fit between the mantle and the corner of the bookshelf on the perpendicular wall. It only had four shelves, and much of it was empty, but he saw Hawke had started filling from the top down, and he walked over to look at it more closely. One of the titles caught his eye, and he plucked it from the shelf.

" _Cautionary Tales for the Adventurous_?" he asked, amused. "That sounds like something you'd read and then immediately go and do."

Hawke laughed. "Quite possibly. I haven't gotten to that one just yet."

Sebastian put the book back and ran a finger along the shelf as he peered at a few others she had collected.

" _Adventures of the Black Fox_ , _The First Blight_ , _Records of the Blackmarsh_ , _Meditations and Odes to Bees_?" He sounded mildly surprised. "You've got quite an... expanse of titles here."

She shrugged as he picked up an old leather bound book with no title. "I pick them up wherever I find them. Books were always so precious to us when we were on the road in Ferelden, and it seems a waste to let them lie where no one will ever read them."

While she spoke, Sebastian opened the book he held and was startled to see the handwriting of one obviously not trained in the scrivener's art. It was of a tranquil mage's thoughts, from the Starkhaven Circle, no less. Sebastian frowned.

"You keep journals as well?"

He heard her draw in a breath and let it out before she answered. "It's not like a take them from their owners themselves, you know. Either they were already stolen or were just lying about abandoned. Journals are bits of people," she said and he heard a soft, old pain creep into her voice despite her best efforts. "And they should at least have a home."

A small smile tugged at his mouth, and he looked up from the journal in his hands. "Aye. I--my grandfather used to say much the same. But of most books, rather than just journals. I used to love going into his study when I was a lad," he went on, lost in memory. "It was smaller than this room--without the second level--but had over twice as many books in it." His eyes focused on Hawke's face. "And he wrote his own journals. Got me started, too--mostly to practice my writing when I was young. When I got older, I would spend hours in there--whether I was supposed to be there or not," he added with a little chuckle.

The pain he had heard in her words was gone, replaced by a smile mirroring his. "You were fond of your grandfather, weren't you?"

"Oh, aye. He taught me much of the values I still hold today." _He had been the only one who cared enough to do so_. "He also gave me my love of books and languages."

"Languages?" Her curiosity was piqued.

"Aye. The auld tongue of Starkhaven. I remember the first time he gave me compliment was about some words I had picked up in it, and from then on, I would pour over old books of it until I was fluent."

"Are you still?"

"More or less. You lose some things if you don't speak it regularly, but it's much more rust than true forgetting."

Hawke walked over to the bookcase and him, leaning against the mantle when she stopped. "Perhaps you could teach me a few words sometime."

"Mm," he said, watching her. "Perhaps. If you let me peruse your library at will, I might be persuaded."

Her smile broadened. "Oh, I think that can be arranged"


	10. Fight

Their voices were distant. At first, he felt as if fuzz had been placed all around his ears, but now that he thought about it, they were really more of an echo. Perhaps a memory.

No, he tried to shake his head. They had to be a dream. He was in the Fade--the white, jagged edges around everything giving that ephemeral look had to mean a dream.

Who did those voices belong to? He felt as if he should remember them, but his head hurt, and he couldn't bring names or faces to mind. Instead, when he looked around himself, he saw an old familiarity he hadn't seen in almost a decade. The white edges faded away, and he supposed he was waking up as everything sharpened.

He was in Starkhaven. He narrowed his eyes. How could that be? He had been in Kirkwall, hadn't he? He seemed to think so, though everything was just as it was when he left, and he really couldn't be sure of himself. He heard someone call for him--recognised his mother's voice. Cringing, Sebastian waited for the verbal lashing he was sure to come; his mother never called for him unless he had to present himself to guests or she was irritated with him.

"Sebastian!" She cried as she flung open the door to his room. Worry was etched on her face instead of all the other things Sebastian had expected. "Thank the Maker you're here!" She ran over to him and enfolded him in her arms. Frozen for a moment, not knowing how to react, he awkwardly hugged her back, before she withdrew slightly to look at his face.

Cupping his jaw in her delicate hands, his mother gazed at him with a fondness he never remembered being reserved for him.

"We thought you would never come back to us," his mother told him. She looked older, with much more silver gleaming in her hair. Her face had more lines, and the locket she had always worn was gone from her neck.

"Come back?" he heard himself croak. His voice was hoarse and ragged, though he didn't know why.

"Yes," she whispered vehemently. "You ran away to Kirkwall years ago, and we couldn't get you to return, until one day you just appeared back at the castle!"

His eyes flickered across her face, searching. Why would he come back? His parents had wanted nothing to do with him. His brothers had wanted nothing to do with him--they hadn't even told him when his grandfather died, and he was closest to the elder Vael. His brow knit as he tried to remember through the sudden throb of pain in his temples. He lifted a hand to press against his head, and his mother drew back at his abrupt movement.

"Sebastian, dear, are you well? Shall I send for the healer?"

Something clicked in his mind, and his eyes shot back up to her.

"This isn't real," he said.

His mother let out a nervous laugh. "What? Not real? I do think you are unwell, my son, to be saying such things. Of course this is real."

"No," he continued, standing. He wavered slightly with a rush of vertigo. "No, it can't be real. You're dead." She gasped and took a step away from him. "And, even if you weren't dead, you would never welcome me back to Starkhaven with such concern and open arms." His eyes flashed a dangerous blue. "And you never, ever would have employed a mage learned in the creation arts. Not even for your beloved Cameron, let alone his youngest brother." He took a step toward the door, but his knees buckled at the sharp pain that shot through his side and he fell to the ground. His mother did not move, and everything had blurred white edges again. His vision was tunnelling even as he stared at the ground. A rush of air left him as he fell to his side, rolling with a grimace onto his back, eyes clamped shut.

What had happened? Flashes came back to him, now. A battle. Outnumbered by smugglers on the way back from a routine visit to the Bone PIt. Ambushed. He had been in rear guard when they jumped him from behind. The flash of pain seared hot in his side and back again, where he felt cold steel slide just below his ribs.

Hawke. It was Hawke's voice he heard in those distant echoes from before. Had he passed out from a stab wound? He struggled to open his eyes again. Whatever that vision of Starkhaven was, be it dream or death, he didn't want it. He wanted a life full of danger and pain and Hawke. He had to fight the narcotic pull back to the yearnings of his younger self in Starkhaven. Kirkwall was where he belonged. The Chantry. Hawke. He had to fight it, for her.

"Sebastian?"

This time, it really was Hawke's voice and not his mother's, and the fuzz stuffed around his ears cleared. Pain shot through his side and lungs as he gasped for breath, eyes flying open all at once. He knew his arms flailed--at least, it felt like they did--and he felt heavy pressure on them. Not a moment had passed with his eyes open before they shut again, as if he could hold them shut to stave off the pain.

"Hold him down--he might tear something more before I can heal him properly." Anders. Thank the Maker they had brought that apostate, for once, Sebastian thought as his mind cleared. "Also, I need him on his stomach so I can have access to the wound."

Fenris's deep grunt came from immediately above him, and he knew the elf was the one leaning on his arms. All at once careful and unceremonious, Fenris rolled him onto his stomach, and Sebastian felt the sharp sting of cool air on open flesh. He made a noise that sounded weaker to his ears than he felt making it.

"Anders..." Hawke sounded worried. Fear tightened his heart. He rarely heard Hawke worried.

"I know, I know." Anders, however, did not sound worried. Mildly irritated and distracted, but not worried. Sebastian wasn't sure if he was comforted or not.

He felt pressure on his left side, shooting new tendrils of pain through his abdomen, but then a warmth filled his body, spreading out from the pressure to the tips of his fingers. He relaxed and could almost feel his skin begin to knit itself back together. After several minutes, the spot that had been nothing but pain before now felt strangely taut. Fenris rolled him over onto his back, and he found he could open his eyes. Anders was the first face he saw, brows knit and fingers on his neck, checking his pulse.

"A little agitated, but that's to be expected. Other than that, everything seems to have worked out just fine." The apostate glanced over at a hovering Hawke, who Sebastian slid his eyes over to see. "He'll be all right."

Hawke released her arms from hugging themselves across her chest and knelt down next to Sebastian. Fenris rocked back on his heels on the other side of her and Anders.

"Can you hear me, Sebastian?"

He nodded. His mouth felt like it were full of cotton, but he managed words, anyway. "Aye, I can." His brogue was thick, much thicker than usual, and he felt sluggish as a muddy river. "What... what happened to me?"

"You were stabbed," Anders explained calmly, wiping the blood from his hands onto a cloth. Sebastian's blood. "Lucky for you, he missed your lung. Otherwise, we wouldn't have been able to pull you back."

Sebastian knit his brow and looked from Anders back to Hawke. "Pull me back?"

She bit her lip and broke eye contact with him. "You... you nearly died, Sebastian."

He could feel his face pale. He had been right, then. Starkhaven would have been death for him. And his mother...

He reached up a shaking hand to clumsily grab part of the leather armour on Hawke's arm. "I didn't," he told her. "I came back."

It took her a moment as she swallowed, to meet his eyes again with a smile that was closer to anguish than happiness--it was rare to see her this raw and shaken up.

"Yes," she whispered, and he could hear the unshed tears in her throat. "You came back."


	11. Recipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[affair](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760061)**

It was a bad idea, he knew. But what a wonderfully bad idea. The best bad idea he had had in a long while. He had always been quick on his feet, and never skirted away from dancing along the edge of a knife, so to speak. He was sure he'd never get closer than he was now to actually doing so.

Hawke was tempting him--this he knew. He might blush as Isabela's crude remarks, and play the tongue-tied fool at times, but he knew more than enough to know when woman was interested in him and wanted him. He tried his best, in the beginning, to not tempt her. Rather, to not tempt fate. The Maker had given him the grace of a second chance, a chance to find peace within himself, before Hawke and her motley crew had come into his life. He shouldn't throw dirt in the eyes of that chance.

But, then again, the Maker also sent Hawke his way, hadn't he?

And so, here he was, playing Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man at nights, and foraying out into the slums of the city--and beyond--during the day with her. The one other person he worried about being concerned for his soul's well-being had not truly said a word one way or the other. Elthina had told him to follow what he thought was right, and to not let himself be blown about like a weather vane. His answer, right now, was to try and mix and match. To try a little of this, but also a little of that. Pray and the Chantry, do minor duties there. Go out with Hawke and Fenris, talk to Varric about possible avenues of connection between Kirkwall and Starkhaven. Those had all been easy enough to balance. And then he started being uncommonly aware of the looks Hawke gave him--he wouldn't say when she thought he wasn't looking, for she was nearly as cunning as he had once been in that arena, but she at least did try and be somewhat covert around the others.

But then there was that one night, on the way back through Hightown where she had him pressed up against a stone wall--and he couldn't stop himself from thinking about how differently that night could have gone once he started. Couldn't stop himself from tasting her now that he had. More nights than he would admit to, he had woken up with her scent in his nose and her taste on his tongue. And now he couldn't stop from occasionally throwing glances right back at her. He tried, Maker he did try--sometimes. There was Anders to consider, after all, and the apostate made no secret whatsoever of his dislike of Sebastian. Between the subtlety of the two rogues (blatant though they were to one another), Sebastian didn't think Anders caught much of what passed wordlessly between them.

There were so many ingredients, so many volatile parts to this concoction, he knew. It was a recipe for disaster, and he only could foresee it ending badly for one--though more than likely all--of them.


	12. Blood

"Are you sure you don't want Anders to take a look at that?" Sebastian asked her, peering with concern at her bleeding eyebrow.

Hawke waved him off and dug around in a stiff leather pouch on her belt until she pulled out a piece of cloth. She tilted her head so the blood from the cut ran down the side of her face to her cheekbone instead of down into her eye.

"Honestly, it's just a scratch. And it's not like I've never been hurt before. I _did_ survived for years before meeting Anders and his healing magic, you know. Hand me that little bottle--no, the dark green one. The purple one would probably just make it worse."

He plucked the vial from the wooden table that sat across from the fireplace in her library, but peered at it suspiciously. "Are you sure this isn't a poison like whatever the other one is?"

"Why do you think I keep them in different coloured bottles?" Impatiently, she leaned over and snatched it from his fingers. "Have a little faith, Sebastian. I've been mixing poultices and potions for years. I may not be as good as Lady Elegant, or Isabela at some of them, but I can tell the difference between a poison and a healing salve." She uncorked it with her teeth and poured some thick liquid onto the cloth, then looked back up at him. "Would you mind...?"

"Hm? Oh! Of course not." Sebastian took the cloth from her and leaned in closer over her. She angled her head to the opposite direction to give him better light and access to the cut. Firelight flickered off the lengths of her hair that weren't in his shadow as he stood between her and the fire. "Though I thought you didn't need any help with this?" he asked, the barest hint of a tease sliding into his voice as he gently dabbed her brow.

She winced and sucked in a breath through her teeth. "I said I didn't need _Anders'_ help. It's just a cut. Nothing to call a healer or write home about. Haven't you ever had a cut on your head before? They always bleed more than it seems they should. Makes them look worse than they actually are."

"Oh, no, I've had my fair share, I suppose. I grew up with two older brothers, after all. Who were very much into martial practices," he murmured, eyes focused on clearing out the blood and dirt from her cut. "It might have helped to wash your face first, you know," he told her.

Hawke shrugged. "With that stuff, it doesn't matter. Has elfroot in it, so it cleans it out pretty much no matter what's gotten into it." She sucked in another breath. "Stings a bit, though."

"In my experience, elfroot usually just tingles a bit." He ignored her reactions to administering the salve. "But, I'm guessing this isn't just elfroot." Sebastian took a moment to use a corner of the cloth that was free of blood and salve to wipe away the blood from her face where it had started to dry.

"Mm. It's hard to imagine you rolling about in the dirt with your brothers as a boy, I must admit."

He didn't mind her changing the subject, and didn't miss a beat in responding or continuing with his task. "I wasn't much for that, honestly. Not after the first few times. Too much hitting involved in swordfighting and melee work."

_He was a lad of nine, still eager to impress his family and try to form solid bonds with his brothers. He had tried talking with them, and they wanted nothing to do with him. So he followed them during their sparring matches in the courtyard--Mathe, lithe and quick with the longsword, and Cameron, equally suited in strength and cleaving power to the double-headed war axe he had recently began training with. Neither sword nor axe was a feasible size for Sebastian to manage, being much younger and smaller than either of them, so he picked up two duelling daggers. Even those looked more like swords in his hands than true daggers, but he liked the weight of them and the feel of the leather grips in his hands, anyway._

_Eager and perhaps a little overconfident, he ran out onto the practice grounds, shouting for his brothers to let him join in. They stopped when they heard him, and broke apart from one another to watch him run up to them. Mathe lowered his sword and looked as if he were about to say something when Cameron spoke up instead._

_'Sure,' Cameron said, face splitting into a grin that had no humour in it. 'We'll fight with you, if that's what you want.'_

_'Cam, I don't think--' The eldest Vael brother cut Mathe off with a sharp cut in the air with his war axe._

_'Come now, brother. If Little Seb wants to, who are we to stop him?' Cameron looked at Sebastian. 'Don't you?'_

_Sebastian, mistaking this for a sudden turn of interest in his brothers, nodded excitedly. 'Aye! I'm a Vael, too, and I can fight just as well!'_

_Mathe stood aside as Cameron changed the grip on the handle of his axe. 'That's the spirit, little brother. Come at me!'_

_Surprised by the sudden vicious bark in Cameron's voice, Sebastian reacted without hesitation, charging head-on toward his eldest brother, blunted daggers raised and a childish war cry emerging from his throat._

_Suddenly Mathe was between Sebastian and Cameron, sword coming up at half-speed. Sebastian met it with both daggers, but stumbled, having never used them before in earnest. Mathe spared a glanced over his shoulder to their older brother, who seemed in a bit of shock that his fight was intercepted before it began. Mathe waited for Sebastian to lunge again, and easily deflected the blow, sending him reeling off to one side with a moderate blow to the shoulder from his sword pommel._

_Sebastian winced from the hit, but gritted his teeth and whirled to rush at his brother again. Mathe never attacked, just kept waiting for Sebastian to make the move first._

"Sebastian?" Hawke's voice cut through the memory. "Hello? Everything all right? Don't tell me you're squeamish about a little blood, hm?"

"No... I was just... I apologise, Hawke. Do you have more of that salve? I don't think you put enough on there--your cut just soaked it all up." He reached for the little green bottle again and poured a bit more onto the cloth. "While it is nothing major, it seems to be a bit deeper than you thought."

Hawke shrugged. "That's what I have the salve for. See? Nothing to call Anders about."

There was a hitch in her voice that was just barely there, but he heard it anyway. She was afraid, he realised. But afraid of Anders? Sebastian knew the mage was head over heels for Hawke, and wouldn't hurt a hair on her head--much as he was inclined to dislike the man. He knew they were sleeping together, and it was not his place to judge... but, still... He should confront her about it, he knew. Especially as he valued her as a friend, if nothing else he would openly admit to. But, a little boy's voice inside him whispered what might happen if he meddled in affairs that weren't his, with someone so volatile.

_Sebastian was starting to enjoy the sparring with Mathe, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew his brother was hardly doing anything to sustain the fight. He was part of something with them, that's all he knew. And then Cameron stepped in._

_The elder of the three shouldered Mathe roughly out of the way, nearly knocking him back onto the ground._

_'Cam--don't--'_

_His words were ignored by Cameron, who held the war axe before himself like a scepter, a grin twisted on his face._

_'You've had your fun, brother. Now it's my turn.'_

_Unknowingly, Sebastian ran with gusto toward his first brother, howling the same little mock war cry as before. Cameron laughed and knocked a dagger out of one of Sebastian's hand's with a single, offhand sweep of his axe. Startled, Sebastian hesitated a moment too long, and the second dagger went flying to the ground in the opposite direction with Cameron's backswing._

_'Hey!' Sebastian shouted, completely disarmed, 'that's unfair! Now I can't fight you!'_

_'Cameron!' Mathe called sharply from behind his brother._

_'Don't worry,' Cameron said to both of them, tossing his war axe to the ground, where it sent a cloud of dust up to envelop the blades and handle. 'I won't kill him.'_

_Sebastian's eyes widened at that moment. 'Wait, what--?'_

_Without any other warning, Cameron lunged at his youngest brother with a speed that belied his much larger frame, over a decade older than Sebastian, and knocked him into the ground. Sebastian managed to roll a few feet away when he hit the ground, but could go no further before Cameron caught his boot and pulled  himself overtop the younger boy._

_'Ever wonder what a brawl was, brother?' he asked, looming large and dark over Sebastian. The youngest son whimpered and tried to cover his face. Cameron's knees pinned him down on either side, and his arms did little good to shield himself from the blows._

_By the time Mathe ran over and was able to pry their older brother off, Sebastian's face was bloody in half a dozen places and the bridge of his nose was broken. One of his eyes was already swollen, and the other looked as if it wasn't too far behind. He lay motionless on the ground, though his chest still rose and fell in shallower breaths than what was normal. Mathe called for the guards, and wrestled Cameron away from Sebastian's small frame, though the elder brother had stopped struggling by that time._

_'Little brat," Cameron muttered. 'Sticking his nose in places where he never will belong.' He watched dully as a guard scooped up Sebastian and carried him back inside, Mathe's arms still wound around his, pinning them back. He could have broken free, but the rage was gone now, spent._

_Mathe said nothing at all._

Sebastian wiped the rest of the blood as best he could with no water from Hawke's face. "I think that should do it," he said quietly.

"Thank you," Hawke said, as if there had been no hitch to her voice before. "It should hardly even be a scar in a few days." She looked up at him, small smile on her lips, and his brow knit just a fraction. She mistook the worry. Lifting a hand to make a few dismissing flicks of her hand, she added, "It might not even scar, in fact. You did put on quite a bit more than I usually do, so there's nothing to worry about."

Sebastian grabbed her hand mid-motion, startling her into looking up into his eyes.

"Sebastian, what--?"

"Hawke," he said, not releasing her hand, but drawing it closer to himself without realising he was even doing so, "what is it about Anders that frightens you?"

"I--" Her eyes searched his, and he saw the slivers of fear in them. He pushed away the little boy inside him, warning him of the repercussions of meddling, and never broke her gaze. She worried her lower lip, and tore her eyes from his, staring into the fire. "Can you... can I..."

He encompassed her hand with his long fingers, reassuring. "Yes, Hawke, you can, Especially with me."


	13. Dream

_The bird before him ruffled its feathers, ruddy as red earth in the shadows of the forest that surrounded them. He watched its eyes, big and golden, almost like two suns the way the flashed in the dappled light. The pupils focused on him for a moment, and his breath caught in his throat, but then the hawk looked to the sky above them between the branches and broad leaves._

Go _, he wanted to tell it, yet he also felt the undeniable urge to plead,_  stay by my side. _But he knew this was one he was not meant to keep beyond its will._

_With movements as fluid as living water, the hawk hunched and spread its wings, then leapt off its perch and climbed rapidly through the green canopy spread above them. On an impulse he neither questioned nor denied, he surged into motion as well, sprinting through the forest after it, only taking his eyes from the patches of sky to avoid stumbling over rocks or fallen logs. His heart thudded in tandem with the rhythm his feet pounded on the soft earth, and suddenly the shadows and trees gave way to a bright and open field. Sebastian slowed and waded through seeding grasses taller than his knees to the edge of the field, which dropped off down a craggy cliff-side. His eyes never left the rising form of the hawk, red feathers now flashing bright as a flame in the open sunlight, though he instinctively knew when to stop before reaching the sudden drop._

_Circling above him on the warm, rising drafts, the hawk's pinion feathers were outstretched and spread wide, fingers trying to grasp the wind. Sebastian could still see the hawk as clearly as he could when it had been with him in the forest. The wind raked through its feathers and his hair alike, throwing it back from his face as the sun warmed his skin. Eyes never wandering, elation growing in his heart, he tracked the hawk as it glided through a maze of low-hanging clouds--clouds that clung to the reaches of the mountain before him._

_The updrafts took the hawk up to the mountain's summit, a place he could never go himself, and for a while he lost sight of the bird. A strange emotion filled his chest, pushing until it felt like his ribcage was about to break, and he was still trying to place a name to it when the hawk circled from behind the peak and into his view again, and all thoughts he might have been following vanished from his mind. Drawing in a deep breath, he could taste the fresh mountain air and smell the warm earthiness of the hawk's feathers. He closed his eyes and was content._

_A cloud passed over the sun and the wind shifted to the south, bringing a cold bite along its path. Sebastian opened his eyes and could not find the hawk circling the mountain. He squinted at the tall peak and tried to focus on seeing further into the distance, or into the clouds, searching for it. He felt the hawk was important--not just to him, but to the greater world. Though he could not explain why, he felt drawn to the hawk, and wanted--needed--to make sure it was still flying. The wind shifted again and blew against him in stronger gusts; he had to shield his eyes against the sharp salt spray it flung to freckle against his cheekbones and brow._

_Beneath the buffer his hand created, he scanned the skies, watching the clouds build upon one another, darkening the sky and the ground beneath them. His search yielded no hawk and the breath in his lungs quickened, his nostrils flaring and his throat constricting._ Where was his hawk?

_Like a dart, as if on command, a winged shape dove out of a particularly dark thunderhead, chased by a streak of lighting. His easing tension did not have the chance to unwind the sigh from around his heart before a clap of thunder followed the lightning and hawk, deafening. It was a cacophony that made his ears ring and he covered them to no effect. The reverberations shook him to his very bones and roiled his stomach nearly into fruitless heaves.Sebastian shouted, though he said no true words, but it would not have mattered if he did--no sound could penetrate the shaking air the thunderclap left in its wake. He watched helplessly as the hawk spiraled haphazardly down toward the mountain, flapping its wings and trying to regain control._

_Heart thudding in his throat and groin, Sebastian could only reach out into the empty air in front of him in horror as a thousand arrows flew skyward up out of the mountain forest below the careening hawk. A shuddering breath Sebastian hadn't known he was holding rushed out of his mouth as every arrow missed its mark and the unharmed hawk struggled to pull out of its free-fall. Then, a single blazing arrow arced through the air and pierced its belly with such force that the head of the arrow skewered completely through the hawk's body._

_Another wordless cry tore itself from Sebastian's raw throat, echoing the shrill shriek of the hawk as it plummeted, small body wracked with death throes, trailing blood and feathers through the dark sky._

_His heart pounded in his head, trying to break free, his throat tightened like a noose around his breath, his hands clutched at nothing--_

\--and he woke with a gulping gasp, sweat running down his spine to the small of his back as he shot upright in his bed, sheets twisted about his legs. Staring into the darkness for a few moments as his heart refused to calm but his breathing steadied, he released the sheets his fingers held like vices to reach out beside him, just to touch her, to make sure she was okay...

Sebastian choked back the beginnings of a sob in his chest when his hand fell to grasp at empty air, and he remembered he was in his cell in the chantry in Kirkwall, that Hawke was not beside him--she never was and never would be. Lifting his empty fingers, he raked them through his hair, slicked with sweat, then looked at them, shaking in the darkness.

He knew what the dream meant, and shivered involuntarily through the thinness of his simple sheets, though the night was not cold. Like the threatening fortress of clouds in his dream, Sebastian felt whatever storm hovered above Kirkwall would crash down upon them, Hawke at the forefront. He hoped they all would be enough to keep her from falling under the onslaught of its wrath--whomever the storm might be in the end.


	14. Light

“It’s been years,” Sebastian said, resting his head back against the smooth wall.

“Ride in them all the time?” Varric’s voice was just a touch grating.

Closing his eyes against the dim light they all sat in, he let out a soft breath before answering.

“No, not if I could help it. Too cramped, too dark. Luckily, my parents never required much of me that needed a carriage.” He opened his eyes to look at the others again—Hawke, of course, who was the only one of them actually invited; Varric, who wouldn’t miss something like this for the world, Sebastian supposed; and much to everyone’s surprise, Hawke’s sister Bethany, granted special permission from the Circle to join them.

“That’s still more times than I’ve been in one,” Hawke said, her hand drawing back a side of the curtain that covered the window on the door, allowing a slant of light to fall across her face as she peered out. “And I don’t think it likely I’ll be repeating the decision any time soon.”

"You know, if we didn’t arrive this way, it’d look like we were trying to sneak in,” their new companion, the crimson-headed Tallis cut in. “Orlesians are all about the style.”

“Right,” Varric droned. “Don’t want to give the impression we’re up to no good.”

"We should arrive late,”Sebastian said suddenly, then added to Hawke’s questioning look, “fashionably late, and all. Give them something else to talk about—the Champrion of Kirkwall not caring enough about a wyvern hunt to even arrive on time.”

“And that’d be a good thing?” One of Hawke’s eyebrows arched up.

“At the very least it’d be one more thing to distract them from our real objective.” Tallis said.

“Which is stealing. Like common theives.” Sebastian couldn’t stop his voice from falling flat.

“Something he has no right to have in the first place,” Tallis reminded him. “Think of it as ‘stealing _back_ ’.”

The carriage rolled over a bumpy patch on the road, jostling them around and breaking up their conversation. Following a few more minutes of quiet, Bethany gave a small smile.

“Who knows, maybe it’ll actually be fun? I have heard that Orlesians do know how to throw some interesting parties,” Bethany suggested, but after the other four in the carriage aimed sharp looks at her, added, “But… probably not.”

“Right,” Hawke said, turning her eyes back out the small window behind the curtain. “Should be fun.”


End file.
